• T/W • r/pe, st/b, b/aten, t/bacco, implied r/pe
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Racetrack Higgins was being roughly held against a wall. Why was he being held against a wall? Well, that is a horribly horrible story.
Racetrack and Spot had become friends after the strike. The two instantly clicked and became more than that. They described their relationship as 'very close best friends', though everyone knew what was really happening with the two of them. And even though Spot, nor Race would admit it, they loved one another.
Racetrack would always tell Spot when he was coming to Brooklyn, only this time he wanted his appearance to be a surprise. He told no one where he was going, but had mentioned to Albert earlier in the day that he was going to hang out with Spottie. Albert didn't think that this information was important, and he was only half listening at the time.
When Race had crossed the bridge to Brooklyn he didn't know that he had started to be followed. He didn't notice how there was a man behind him, he didn't notice how that man was making all of the same turns as him, and he didn't notice how much of a threat that man was. Race only realized the man was there after he had been pulled into an alleyway, a hand wrapped tightly around his throat to keep him from escaping.
Racetracks eyes widened, and a small, chocked back scream escaped his throat. He was worried he was about to be mugged, or beaten, or stabbed. He then realized that none of those things were going to happen when he heard the man speak, his voice gruff and smelling of tobacco.
"Hey, there Princess. What are ya doin' in the big, bad parts o' Brooklyn? Y'lookin' for a tough man ta take care o' ya? Ta make ya scream?"
Racetracks heart had sped up to a million miles a minute. He knew what the man meant by 'scream'. Race had tried to get away, but the man had slammed him against a wall, Race's head connecting with it with an extreme amount of force. Race's vision blurred, and for a moment everything became foggy. He barely had time to register the lips slamming against his.
Race squeaked out in surprise, trying to push the man away, but to no avail. It was only half of a moment before the mans hand was down at Races crotch.
Race could feel the panic rise in his chest. All he could hear was the frantic beating of his heart and the blood rushing to his ears. For a moment everything went silent, and he felt nothing. It was as if all of his senses went away, but came back too quickly. The man had pulled Races pants down, along with his undergarments. The cold air sent a shiver through him, but didn't make him cold. The blood coursing through his veins in a state of panic kept him warm.
The feeling of the mans hand caressing, and prodding, and pinching, and slapping, and hitting, and just plain touching his body made Race break, not to mention the things the man actually did to him. Race tried to scream out for help, but when he did he was either choked by the man, or choked by his own sobs.
By the time the man left a broken, used, shattered Racetrack Higgins, it was pitch black out compared to the dusk he had first been walking to Brooklyn in. Race shakily grabbed his clothes, putting them on, before curling into a sobbing, freezing ball. He couldn't believe this. All he wanted to do was see Spot. All he wanted to do was cuddle up next to him, maybe play a game of cards, or kiss him a little. Race wished that he hadn't been so stupid to come here unannounced.
Race wished that he would have told someone where he was going. Race wished that he had put up a better fight against the man. Race wished he hadn't come here in the first place. Race wished that it wasn't so goddamned cold outside, and that he wasn't wearing one layer of clothing. Race also wished that he could stop crying and call out for help, but he was too scared to attract more attention to himself. Race thought that he was going to freeze to death in the little alley, but what he didn't know was that he had a friend who cared for him.
Albert had not been listening to Racetrack when he earlier told him about going to hang out with Spottie, and so he was worried when Race didn't arrive back at the Lodgings. He waited until dark, thinking that he could have just been having a bad day and needed the extra time to sell, then began to worry. Race was never out after dusk, let alone dark.
Albert thought that there was the possibility of Race going to see Spot, but since it was never mentioned to him, he dismissed the thought. That thought, however, came back to him the later it got, and so he slipped out of the Lodgings, walking confidently across the Brooklyn bridge and onto Spots territory.
When Albert arrived at the Brooklyn Lodgings and asked for Spot, Spot had seemed completely confused as to why he was there.
"Heyya, Spot. 'S Race 'ere?"
Spot shook his head, leaning against the door frame.
"No. Why? He ain't wit' youse?"
The two boys quickly realized something wasn't right, and so Albert ran back to Manhattan, looking for Race on the streets over there. Spot and his gang took Brooklyn.
It had been two hours before Spot found Race. By then Race was a complete and utter mess. He was huddled in a ball, shivering, half conscious. When Spot touched him he freaked out and erupted into a fit of sobs, pressing himself against the wall harder than before. It took a good ten minutes to calm Race down, and when he did, Race was still a sobbing mess.
It broke Spot to see Race like this, and he wanted to break whomever made Race broken.
Even when Race was brought back to the Brooklyn Lodgings he wasn't okay. When Race was sitting beside Spot, blankly staring at the floor, shaking, he wasn't okay. When Race didn't leave the Brooklyn Lodgings the next day, no matter who spoke to him, he wasn't okay. When Race had a mini panic attack at the thought of going outside, he wasn't okay, though over the span of a couple days he was able to slightly open up to Spot again.
Racetrack just needed Spot, and though Race would never speak of what happened, he needed comfort from someone.
Spot didn't push Race about what happened, but he could only guess from how he acted. Race was jumpy, and skittish, and would sometimes start to freak out when touched. The blank stares Race gave to the wall that Spot sometimes walked in on, and the muttering Race now sometimes did didn't help.
Though Spot knew Race was bent, he couldn't believe he was broken. Spot was going to stand by Race and made sure he continued to get better, as Spot loved Race and knew it.
The two boys were made for one another.
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